


i'll say the words that make you blush

by ViolaWay



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, M/M, artist!louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:19:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/ViolaWay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that Harry hates art, not exactly. It’s more that he hates artists, and all other arty types, who think they can decipher the meaning of the universe because of a few splotches on a canvas.<br/>(In which Louis is an artist, and Harry’s girlfriend drags him to his gallery.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll say the words that make you blush

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from 'you need me, i don't need you' by ed sheeran

 

It’s not that Harry hates art, not exactly. It’s more that he hates artists, and all other arty types, who think they can decipher the meaning of the universe because of a few splotches on a canvas. And he supposes he hates them mostly because his pretentious, artsy girlfriend Anneli tells him _every day_ that art is so  _wonderful_ and  _magical._ And she talks about how  _this_ colour is so expressive (it’s just brown), and  _this_ colour captures the ‘mood’ perfectly (also brown), and  _this_ colour is just absolutely  _perfect_ (it’s all fucking  _brown_ ).

He might have to break up with her.

But he can’t—not yet, anyway. Because it’s her birthday on Friday and she’s insisting that they both go to some trendy art gallery in London where it costs £50 per ticket (aren’t these things meant to be free?), and  _she’s paying_ so he can’t exactly back out now. Although he is starting to wonder how their relationship has lasted this long already. He’s not even sure he’s attracted to her.

But he’s absolutely dreading this birthday trip, because Anneli has promised to introduce him to “the most  _dahling_ artist, honey. He’s the biggest new thing; you’ll just  _love_ him.” Harry had not been paying attention, so he can’t recall the name of this mysterious prodigy. But to be honest, he doesn’t care, because the guy’s sure to be a pretentious dick-head either way.

The thing is: Anneli isn’t even an artist. She’s no better at drawing than Harry is. But she’s obsessed with being part of the art community, analysing paintings for all she’s worth and talking  _endlessly_  about it to Harry.

He doesn’t know how much more of this he can stand.

***

He’s shoved into a navy blue blazer and white skinny jeans for the event. Which is actually okay, because it hides all of his tattoos, and he doesn’t want all the arty people thinking he’s  _one of them._ Anneli wears a pink t-shirt and ripped jeans. Harry reminds her that she paid £100 to go to this stupid event, and she says that everyone there will understand.

They don’t.

Surrounded by champagne and women in cocktail dresses, Harry almost laughs at his girlfriend. But he’s too polite for that. Someone else laughs, though.

“Annie, what’re you wearing?” chuckles someone behind her. No-one calls her Annie; Harry remembers the one time he tried and had to go three weeks without sex. Sheesh.

“Oh, Louis! Honey, I’m making a  _statement_ ,” Anneli exclaims. Harry’s eyes bulge out of his head and he reluctantly turns around to see…oh, my God.

There is a high probability that this man is the literal definition of sex. That might even be an understatement. His skin is a glowing olive colour, shining under the lights and glistening with just the tiniest amount of sweat, as if he’s nervous but trying not to show it. His eyes are piercing, crinkled at the edges as he grins cheekily at Anneli, and they’re kind of blue that reminds Harry of several hopelessly cliché comparisons, and his hair is flicked across his forehead, brown tufts sticking up at the back, and Harry wants to smooth them down and knead his fingers through those wispy strands. But the worst (or maybe the best) thing about Louis is his jeans: red and gloriously tight, sticking to his thighs as though glued there, outlining his crotch and Harry has to look away to stop himself drooling or something similarly stupid.

Shit, he didn’t even know he was attracted to guys until this precise moment.

“And this is the Harry you’ve been going on about?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow and looking Harry up and down. Crap. “Shame he’s a taken man,” he winks at Anneli, and she giggles. Harry pauses to think he might not be the only one with a crush on Louis.

“Aw, Harry’s totally straight. Right, honey?” Anneli ascertains. Harry clears his throat awkwardly.

“Almost a hundred percent,” he says, and he’s not lying. Louis just happens to be in that stupid one percent.

“I’ve still got a chance, then?” Louis grins, and Harry curses him straight to the deepest pits of hell.

It’s going to be a long night.

***

A few hours pass and Harry is considerably more tipsy when he sees Louis for the second time, and is it just him or did Louis get better looking in that time?

“Hi, Hazza!” Louis says brightly, skipping over. Harry is not drunk enough for this.

“Hazza?” he asks, lips curving into an involuntary smile.

“Yeah. ‘S your new nickname. Suits you.” Louis’ words are slightly slurred, too, and he leans carelessly into Harry’s side. Harry tenses slightly, but he’s not sure that Louis notices.

“Are you drunk?” he grins down at Louis, who seems to be rather unsteady on his feet, leaning almost the entirety of his weight onto Harry’s side.

“Maybe a little. Are you really straight?”

“I’ve got a girlfriend.” 

“You’re avoiding the question,” Louis accuses him. “That’s not an answer at all.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe. I don’t know. You’re really fit, you know that?” Harry might be more than slightly tipsy.

“I’ve been told,” Louis giggles (fucking  _giggles)._

“Thought I was straight.”

“Ever had sex with a guy?” Louis asks. Harry thinks he has known this man, in total, for about ten minutes of conversation time. This is not the kind of conversation you have with strangers. Still, he replies.

“No.”

“Then I guess you haven’t totally found out yet, have you? ‘Cos I’m pretty sure you’re attracted to me, babe.”

“I’m still going out with Anneli.”

“Anneli’s cheating on you already,” says Louis bluntly. Harry doesn’t even pause to think that the man might be lying to get into his pants. “Sorry, mate. She thinks it’s more artsy if she has multiple lovers. She’s a fucking idiot.”

“You’re lying.” Harry feels oddly high. And relived. At least now he has an excuse to break up with her, even if it’s not true.

“I’m not lying. She lives with her high school boyfriend Henry,” Louis smirks. “Will you sleep with me now?”

This is by far the oddest conversation Harry has ever had. He thinks he likes it.

“How do you know about that?” he asks, ignoring Louis’ question (although the answer is probably yes, who is he even kidding?)

“She likes to think I’m her gay artist best friend. We go shopping together on Saturdays,” Louis shrugs. “She said you were hot.”

“Does she ever stop talking about art around you, then?” Harry inquires.

“Nope. She’s a bloody bore, but I’m still her friend for much the same reason you’re still in a relationship with her. Except now you’ve got an excuse to break it off. And y’know, not all gay guys love shopping. Especially at  _women’s stores.”_

“How much have you had to drink?” Harry asks again, his smile getting wider by the second at Louis’ tiny, adorable outrage.

“I don’t know. Champagne’s not meant to make you drunk, is it?”

“You’re an idiot,” Harry laughs.

“Can we make out now?” Louis whines.

“No! My girlfriend may be incredibly annoying, pretentious, and cheating on me, but—“

“Harry?”

Ah, shit. Harry swivels slowly on the spot (which almost makes Louis topple over) to see his girlfriend standing, looking comically filled with rage (there may or may not be steam coming out of her ears. Harry is pretty drunk.)

“There was a nice sentiment underneath all that, I swear!” Louis defends him.

“Shut up, Lou!” Anneli hisses. “Harry. For God’s sake, why would you…? How could you…?”

Harry realizes he has literally rendered his girlfriend incapable of speech. This is a first.

“Um. It’s like that painting you showed me once. It was all abstract, but you said it was showing two lovers, separated by the green paint in the middle?”

“Jealousy?”

“Okay, well in this situation, the green paint represents paint. And the reason that we’re separated is because you only talk about paint. And I don’t really like paint. So yeah—” Harry can see Louis doubled over in silent laughter and curses his lack of coherency. “—you can see why we’re not working out. And also Louis says you’re cheating on me. So there’s that. Also.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Harry thinks she might start crying, which is bad. So he awkwardly reaches out an arm to pat her on the shoulder, only she recoils from the touch.

“Well…”

“He’s gay!” Louis interrupts. “Absolutely, a hundred percent homosexual. He sees you as more of a friend, really. It’s nothing personal. He only realised tonight. There are a lot of paintings of naked men around.”

“Is this true, Harry?”

This is probably the most awkward situation Harry has ever been in in his entire life. He takes the lifeline Louis’ giving him.

“Yup.”

“Harry…”

“I think I’ll just…leave then,” Harry says quickly. “I’ll get a cab home and stuff. Sorry, Anneli.”

“I just don’t know what to think…” she shakes her head and stalks off. Harry kind of wishes she’d killed him in post-break-up rage. It would make him feel less horrible, at least.

“Are you really leaving?” Louis asks, quieter this time.

“May as well. I just broke up with the girl who brought me here, and I really don’t like art.”

“Oh, really? Not even mine?” Louis replies.

“Shit! I forgot…”

“That I’m an artist? Fair enough. Come over here, though, have a look at mine before you leave.”

He leads Harry through the room (away from Anneli, thank God), and they stop in front of a small display which is…

“It’s made out of leaves,” Harry states.

“Wrong. It’s made out of  _nature._ ”

“It’s pretty.”

“Like me?”

“Don’t push it.”

“If I made my phone number out of grass will you call me?”

“Depends on how much time you put into it.”

“That defeats the object. You’d have to give me your address so I could send it to you.”

“Maybe I want to challenge you,” Harry laughs.

“I’m not a stalker!” Louis objects.

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m considering not even calling you at all,” Louis replies, sticking his tongue out childishly.

“Really? After all the trouble you went to?”

“I haven’t even made the grass phone number yet,” Louis jokes.

“No, but you were pretending to be drunk.”

“No, I—shit! When did you realize?”

“When you started talking to Anneli like a normal human being. Good acting, though. Really shameless. You fooled me,” Harry grins.

“I do act that crazy normally,” Louis admits. “Not much acting required, I’m afraid. Although I have had a few glasses—they do really good champagne at these things, y’know.”

“How about this. I’m giving you my phone number, and when you call me tomorrow morning I will invite you out for drinks. You’ll say ‘it’s still the morning!’ and pretend to be scandalized, and then we’ll go out and I’ll get you properly drunk before lunchtime. Sound good?”

“And then what?”

“I might let you sleep on my couch.”

“You’re playing hard to get, Styles.”

“I am the master,” Harry smirks.

“Just you wait,” Louis promises. “I have tighter jeans.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! kudos, comment, bookmark...make my day!  
> my tumblr is oopshidaisy if you're interested :)


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